“You look wonderful, my love,” she whispered for the microphones.
“Thank you, darling,” I replied, gently untangling myself from her grip and stepping up to the podium.
I adjusted the microphone. The room fell into a respectful, heavy silence. Three hundred pairs of eyes locked onto me.
“Thank you,” I began, my voice booming through the state-of-the-art sound system. “Many of you are here tonight because you believe you are witnessing a transfer of power. A passing of the torch to the next generation.”
I looked over at Preston, who puffed out his chest slightly.
“You are,” I said. “But before we talk about the future, I think it’s important to reflect on the past. To understand the foundation upon which this family is built.”
I gripped the edges of the podium. “People often ask me, ‘Richard, what is the secret to a forty-year marriage? How do you maintain such loyalty, such devotion, in a world full of greed?'”
I turned my head and locked eyes with Eleanor. Her serene smile faltered for a fraction of a millimeter. She sensed it. The subtle shift in my tone. The lack of warmth in my eyes.
“Well,” I said, turning back to the crowd. “Tonight, I’ve decided to show you my secret.”
I reached into my pocket and pressed a small button on a remote control.
The main ballroom lights slammed dark.
Behind me, the massive, thirty-foot LED screen—which had been displaying our monogram—flickered.
The screen flared to life, illuminating the dark ballroom with the stark, unglamorous footage from the basement of The Gilded Oak. The audio was crisp, amplified through the concert-grade speakers.
There was Eleanor, in high definition, pouring the champagne.
“To the stupidest man in Chicago,” Harper’s sneering voice echoed off the crystal chandeliers.
“To Richard,” Eleanor’s laugh boomed through the room. “The goose that lays the golden eggs.”
A collective gasp swept through the crowd. I saw a senator in the second row drop his champagne flute. It shattered, but no one looked away from the screen.
Eleanor lunged toward the podium. “Richard! Turn this off! The screen is hacked!”
I stepped in front of her, immovable. “Sit down, Eleanor. The presentation isn’t over.”
The video continued. The crowd watched, horrified, as my wife and daughter-in-law plotted to sell my assets, hide debts, and discussed the fake pregnancy.
Then, the kill shot.
“I’ve been crushing digoxin into his morning ginger smoothies,” Eleanor’s voice filled the cavernous room, cold and clinical. “One day, very soon, he’ll just fall asleep in his armchair and not wake up. Then, we control the board. We own everything.”
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